


All of Us, We're Cracked in Two

by J (jaywright)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel Gender, Demon Gender, Genderfluid Character, Occasionally Trans Male Character, Other, Sartorial Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-09-01 01:06:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20249626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaywright/pseuds/J
Summary: "Never mind what you're doing," Crowley finally managed to choke out.  "What are you wearing?"





	All of Us, We're Cracked in Two

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Etben for wrangling phrases, limbs, & perspectives, and for putting Aziraphale in his underwear. All remaining errors are my own.

**\------- London, 2019 AD -------**

The door was locked, but it knew to open easily for Crowley anyway, the bell above giving out a faint jingle. The sun had not quite set, the last of the light casting a golden glow and long shadows through the windows as Crowley stepped in, melting into the darkness as the door chimed closed behind them.

"I'm very sorry," they heard, muffled behind the labyrinth of shelves, "but we're closed right now. You'll need to come back tomorrow." They were pretty sure no one with human hearing would catch the, "Or never," that followed, but they grinned.

"Never, angel?" they called back. "Never's a very long time.”

"Oh! Crowley, thank heaven."

"Nice to see you, too, angel," they replied. "Or, well. To hear you, at least. Where exactly - " There was a clatter from the far corner of the shop, followed by a muttered burst of what might have been angelic profanity, and a faint puff of dust appearing in the sunset glow near the ceiling. "Ah," Crowley said. "There you are."

"Yes," Aziraphale sounded a bit tetchy. "Here I am. Just...be a dear and get the end of this, could you? I'm having a wretch of a time trying to keep it from toppling over."

"Sure, sure, I'm coming - " Crowley was saying as they rounded the last row of shelves, but instead of crossing to Aziraphale and grabbing an armful of - flatpack wood? - they stopped dead in their tracks. "A-Aziraphale?"

Crowley didn't blink. It wasn't really a thing they were capable of doing. But they paused long enough for Aziraphale's expression to turn almost panicky.

"Crowley!" he demanded, and Crowley could see the bookshelf starting to tilt more dangerously, so they were across the room in seconds, grabbing the other end and hefting it effortlessly upright, eyes not leaving Aziraphale for a moment, wide behind their glasses.

"Oh," Aziraphale breathed out in relief, sagging a bit against the shelving unit. "_Thank_ you, darling. I was so determined to finish this the old fashioned way that it got a bit away from me. I'm ever so glad you got here when you - " he paused, finally seeming to notice the way Crowley was staring at him. "Is everything all right, Crowley? You look…"

"Everything…" Crowley repeated. "Is. Um. Are you…? _What_ are you…?"

They couldn't tear their eyes away from Aziraphale's throat, his forearms, the way the sleeves of his uncustomarily casual shirt were shoved haphazardly up over his elbows, the collar hanging open, not a tie in sight, not even a top button done. And when they let their eyes drop lower, was his shirt...was it _riding up_? Was that a patch of _skin_ Crowley could see there just above his waistband as he leaned against the shelves? Even his feet were bare, dusty on the floor of the shop, and Crowley couldn't think, couldn't have breathed even if they'd needed to. They hadn't seen this much of Aziraphale in decades, in over a century, and they were so busy trying to drink in every soft pale inch of his skin that they barely even registered that he was talking again.

"Yes, I suppose you must be wondering why I'm doing this by hand," Aziraphale was saying, grinning almost guiltily as one hand joined Crowley's in supporting the shelves while the other cranked industriously with an impossibly small wrench at one of the joinings. "I got it into my head that perhaps it might be _fun_, you know? A bit of assembly. A puzzle. It turns out, though," and Crowley wasn't entirely sure they didn't let out some kind of strangled noise as he reached up to push the fingers of his other hand through his hair, leaving it rumpled and standing on end, "I'm not particularly good at puzzles." He looked curiously up at Crowley. "Have you got it? I can let you adjust, if you need."

"No," Crowley all but growled. "I...I don't need."

They needed so badly they could barely see. Needed to reach for Aziraphale, to feel the impossible softness of the curve of his neck, the gently coiled muscles in his forearm, the way he'd startle and maybe squeak and give a betrayed but amused little glare if Crowley touched a cold hand to the swell of his side, peeking out from under his shirt. They needed, they _craved_, so instead they let their head thunk dully against the shelf they were supporting, and made themself form some words.

"Never mind what you're _doing_," they managed, "what are you _wearing_?"

"Oh." Aziraphale looked down at himself as if he'd forgotten. "Well, I couldn't very well get any of my nice clothes all mussed, could I?" He continued cranking until he couldn't anymore, then gave a satisfied nod. He gave the unit a shake, testing its strength, and Crowley very carefully let go, ready to grab it again if needed, but Aziraphale looked pleased. "Perfect," he proclaimed it. "Bless you, Crowley, I don't know what I would have done without you." 

He refocused on another of the connection points and began to tighten it, while Crowley turned away, trying to feel less like they were on fire, less like there was nothing they could possibly do with any of their body parts but reach for Aziraphale, touch him, press their hands and their lips and their entire being to his skin. They leaned down to pick up the instruction manual from where it had been discarded on the floor, and turned it around a few times.

"You know," they said, inspecting it, "this does have two little - are these supposed to be humans? They don't look like any humans I've ever met - assembling the thing. Possibly you were supposed to invite a friend."

"I did!"

"You didn't invite me, angel. I just showed up."

"Yes, well. You usually do, when I need you."

Crowley fumbled the paper. "I. What."

Aziraphale shrugged as if it were nothing. "You do, Crowley."

Crowley should have objected to that, should have come up with any number of scenarios where they hadn't come to Aziraphale's rescue, but when they turned back around, Aziraphale was very industriously gathering books into his arms, which were still bare and so much _stronger_ than Crowley ever remembered to give them credit for, holding so many books that it really should have been impossible. 

"You - " Crowley croaked, and cleared their throat. "You can do _that_, but you needed my help to - " they gestured wildly at the bookshelf.

"I didn't have enough hands," Aziraphale said, a bit petulantly, very carefully shelving each of the books, fingers delicate and loving against their spines. 

"_Grow_ some!" Crowley said, voice rising. It was ridiculous, getting heated about this, and they knew it, but they couldn't stop. Not with Aziraphale standing there humming a little song to himself, bouncing lightly on his bare feet, as if he had no idea how long Crowley had been waiting to see him like this, unbuttoned and uncovered and relaxed.

"Well, I _would_ have," Aziraphale said in a matching tone. "But there you were! So I didn't need to." He put down the last book from his arms and spun, facing Crowley. "What _is_ the matter with you, darling?" 

"Nothing," Crowley spat out. "Nothing's the matter."

Aziraphale's expression softened slightly. "Crowley," he said, almost gently, and oh no, there was not a chance that Crowley was going to survive this. They opened their mouth to object, but instead of naming them as the lecherous fiend they were, he said, "Were you...worried about me?"

Crowley spluttered. That might be even worse. "Worried!" they scoffed. "Angel, look at you. You could lift a house if you wanted. _Worried_," they repeated. "Who do you think I am?"

Aziraphale's smile was soft as he turned for the couch. "Well," he said, "whatever it is that's bothering you, I think a celebratory glass of wine couldn't hurt."

"Never could," Crowley muttered, and followed.

They found, much to their annoyance, that it did in fact help. Or at least, some combination of the glass in their hand and the distance between them and Aziraphale did. Crowley sprawled out on the couch, limbs everywhere, Aziraphale folded neatly onto the chair at his desk, one bare ankle tucked under him, the other swinging rhythmically as he regaled Crowley with the tale of the delivery, unpacking, and nearly disastrous assembly of the new bookcase. Crowley tried very hard not focus on the way the edge of the desk was digging a faint crease into his arm that Crowley wanted nothing more than to kiss away.

To keep their mind off the impulse to touch Aziraphale, they looked him over instead, leaning on an arm and letting their eyes travel over every bit of exposed skin, thinking that maybe, with a little work, they could get him to show off some more. They sat up abruptly, eventually, shucking off their own coat and turning to eye the buttons left done on Aziraphale's shirt. 

"Bit stuffy in here, don't you think?" they asked, making a show of pushing their sleeves up their arms, tugging at the collar of their shirt.

"Oh." Aziraphale looked upwards distractedly. "You can open a window, if you like, or whip us up a bit of a ceiling fan. Just be sure not to let any papers blow about, would you?"

"Ceiling fan!" Crowley muttered mutinously under their breath. 

Aziraphale smiled placidly and refilled their glasses. "I didn't think you even got overheated," he said. "It seems like you're forever looking for someplace warm to curl up."

"I am _not_," Crowley grumbled, but even as they said it, they could imagine Aziraphale tucking himself in beside them on the couch, radiating heat, letting Crowley curl against him, and they didn't quite let out a whimper of need, but it was a near thing. 

When they turned to look at Aziraphale again, his smile was fond and nostalgic. "Maybe not anymore," he allowed. "I remember you, though. Back on the wall, before we ever talked. I nearly jumped out of my skin the first time I almost stepped on you, but I got used to you being there. All stretched out, baking yourself on the stones."

"Yeah, well. Your bit of wall had the best sun," Crowley said. It was true, but only a half truth, because Aziraphale's patch of wall had also had _Aziraphale_, not nearly as hung up on protocol as the other guardians, content to give the basking snake a friendly little wave and a wide berth. _One of God's creatures, and all that,_ Crowley could remember thinking at the time in a sanctimonious mockery of an angel voice, but it had turned out that actually talking to Aziraphale hadn't been a bit like that at all, and by the time they knew that, well. Their days of sunning themself on the wall of Eden were coming to an end.

Those were still the days of tunics, too. Of bare legs and low necklines, and Crowley nearly groaned as their mind was pulled back to the inevitable, to their eyes - now pleasantly roaming with the effects of the wine - taking in the controlled sprawl of Aziraphale, melting a little into his chair, his chin propped up on his hand, his wrist curled temptingly, his neck stretching out as if begging to be kissed, to be bitten…

"I gotta go," Crowley said abruptly, standing up so fast they upended their glass. Aziraphale's eyes caught it neatly in midair, swishing the wine back into it and settling it gracefully on the table, and Crowley almost hated him for it, for how easy and clean everything was for him. For the way _he_ wasn't a wreck at just the sight of Crowley's _arms_, of all things.

"Go?" Aziraphale repeated, sounding distressed. "Oh, but we haven't even had dinner. I was going to order Indian."

"I have to _go_, angel," Crowley said, voice coming out rough and unsteady. "I can't be here. Not right now."

"Oh." Aziraphale looked crestfallen. "Well, if you must, of course. I won't keep you." He stood, unfolding himself from the chair, and it was almost too much for Crowley to take, the way his shirt fell carelessly around his shoulders, his hair still sticking up in six different directions. "Only...you'd tell me, wouldn't you? If there was something I've done? If I've made you...uncomfortable in any way? It's the last thing I want, darling, you must know that."

"I do." Crowley choked on the words, but they were honest. "I know that."

"But?" Aziraphale nudged. 

It was unfair of him, standing there looking like that, wanting Crowley to bare their soul to him in exchange for, what, baring his forearms to them? It hardly seemed like an equal exchange, which was what Crowley opened their mouth to say, but what came out was, "You're all...inversely proportional!" 

Aziraphale blinked. "To what?" 

"What's that?"

"What am I inversely proportional to? One cannot be inversely proportional on his own, Crowley. That's simple...mathematics? Is that mathematics?"

Crowley shrugged. "Dunno. It's proportions. And you've got 'em. You've got 'em all over."

"I...do…" Aziraphale agreed carefully, and seemed to think that drinking more wine might make Crowley make more sense. From his expression when he set the glass down, though, it didn't do much good.

Crowley sighed and let themself blurt out, "It's just, the more of you I see, the less of you I see! See?"

"I. Hm." Aziraphale considered. "That _does_ sound inversely proportional, yes. But also inaccurate. You see an awful lot of me these days."

"Yes!" Crowley agreed, irritated at the circles this was going in, but even more worried that it would stop going in them, that the whole conversation would land with a sickening lurch on the thing they were trying not to say. "And yet, I see basically nothing of you! Usually." They swallowed, trying and utterly failing to keep their eyes off Aziraphale's top button.

Aziraphale's smile went soft, but still perplexed. "I'm right here, darling," he said, and he reached out a hand toward Crowley's, but Crowley jerked away as if his touch was going to burn them. Right now, it just might. Aziraphale’s expression fell. "I don't…" he looked so distressed that Crowley wanted to gather him up in their arms. "I don't know what you need from me."

"I don't need _anything_ from you," Crowley practically spat, and saw the way the words went right through Aziraphale. "I need...I need to go home."

"All right." Aziraphale stepped aside, clearing a path to the doorway, keeping himself neatly out of Crowley's way, and somehow that was the worst thing he could have done. "Go, then."

"I - " Crowley said brokenly, and they couldn't make themself move, because all of a sudden they knew that if they walked out of the shop now, like this, Aziraphale would be back in all his layers the next time they saw him, and the time after that, back in all his armor, not soft and gentle and trusting like he was now, and they needed to leave, to flee, to not let themself get their destructive hands on him, but they _couldn't_. Leaving it like _this_ was maybe even worse than the alternative, so they shifted back and forth on their feet for a moment, searching for words.

"Remember togas?" they finally blurted out.

Aziraphale blinked. "Of course I remember togas, Crowley."

"I remember togas. I remember _you_ in togas. I remember you out of togas, too."

Aziraphale's eyebrows knitted together in confusion, but he couldn't help letting out a tiny laugh. "Yes, I suppose you would. Bathhouses were quite the fashion then. What…?"

"And then!" Crowley continued, because they couldn't not, because the words were there, and they weren't stopping, "Then you were all...buttoned up, weren't you? Couldn't get enough of the clothes, the _fashion_. Had to have every little piece of it, all stacked on top of each other, until there was hardly anything left of _you_, just a lot of - " they waved an arm at his shirt. "_That_. And now here you are, and it's been more than a _century_, and…well, just _look_ at you."

Aziraphale blinked down at himself like he was seeing himself for the first time. "Why, they're only clothes, Crowley."

And with that, they disappeared.

Every scrap on him, the shirt, the trousers, whatever unreasonable contraption he was probably wearing under them, they all vanished in an instant, and Crowley let out a strangled cry, turning away from the expanse of soft, pale, probably decadently warm skin.

"Oh, _don't,_" they all but begged. "Angel, put it back on. I can't...I don't want to…not like _this_. I'm not going to stand here and make you _strip_ for me, Aziraphale. For Chr- for Sa- for whoever's sake! I just...I don't know, you _asked_, all right? And I couldn't just not answer you. Not after everything. So now you have it. It wasn't that I was worried about you, it's wasn't that I _care_ at all. It's just that I'm a bloody perv. Just that I've been waiting for centuries for another look at what you've got hiding under all that...frippery! And now I've had it, and I need to be somewhere else, because if I stay here…"

"If you stay here, _what_?" Aziraphale asked, low and calm, but when Crowley dragged their eyes to meet his, they could see with some relief that he'd at least miracled the shirt back on, hanging loose around him, covering most of what there was to see. "What are you afraid of, Crowley?"

"Me?" Crowley barked out a laugh. "I'm not afraid of anything, angel. It's _you_ who should be afraid."

Aziraphale was in front of them before they even knew he was moving, his fingers tangling into theirs, his eyes sure and steady. "You don't scare me, Crowley," he said. "You never have. You never will." Crowley felt like their fingers were going to singe right off, and Aziraphale let them go as quickly as he'd taken them, backing off a step and a half. "You can go. If that's what you want. If it's what you need. But go knowing that you've asked nothing of me that I wouldn't give willingly. Eagerly, even."

Crowley breathed out, shuddering. "Don't say that."

Aziraphale shrugged, standing there in his shirt like an offering. "I've said it, Crowley. I meant it."

"I…" Crowley's fingers burned to reach for Aziraphale, but they stuffed them in their pockets instead, afraid to look down to see if they were scorching holes through their pants. "I can't. Not like this."

Aziraphale nodded, but he looked utterly shattered as he curled down onto the couch, in the spot that had become Crowley's. He looked so small there, so defenseless, his legs curled up under the tails of his shirt, so instead of turning for the door, Crowley folded to their knees and planted their hands on Aziraphale's leg, shivering at how much more it made them want to touch the rest of him. They didn't, though, keeping their hands there solid and steady as they looked up at Aziraphale and slowly stretched upwards to press a kiss to his lips.

It was gentle, almost chaste, but the gasp that Aziraphale let out was anything but, and the way one of his hands reached to tangle into Crowley's hair held the promise of everything Crowley had never quite allowed themself to want. 

Crowley pulled back, Aziraphale's fingers dropping reluctantly from their hair. "I'll call you, angel," they said, and reeled away, leaving Aziraphale gaping after them.

They ran, figuratively and maybe even a little literally, backing out of the shop and just _going_, all legs and exertion and burning off energy that they weren't quite sure they had earned through any laws of the universe.

There was something almost soothing about getting the heavy door to their flat shut behind them, leaning back on it, blocking out the angel they had left behind, the city, everything. Everything but their thoughts and this museum of their memories, and oh, maybe this hadn't been the best of plans after all, because everywhere they looked, there was Aziraphale. 

They'd meant to come home and sleep, maybe for another century, maybe just for however long it took for the pain of being so close to Aziraphale to fade away, but standing there in the hallway with their eyes on the wrestling figures - all grappling limbs and gripping hands and flashing wings - they realized that maybe fading was not in the plan at all. Their plan or anyone else's.

They turned for the hall, for the bedroom, but the hall was full of looming shadows that rustled as they passed. "Stop _looking_ at me," they muttered, and the plants went silent and still, but Crowley half expected all the leaves to be leaning toward them when they turned back to look.

They didn't turn back.

When they made it to the bedroom, they went face down into the sheets, not miracling away any of their clothes, not letting the glasses fall from their face, just going still and flat. It was a relief, the lack of movement, of anything, but the absence only made the memories come back stronger, and eventually they flipped onto their back and groaned, flinging an arm over their face.

The soft but insistent touch of Aziraphale's lips on theirs. The feeling of his hands curling against theirs, fearless and wanting. The sight of his arms, tight and strong and full of books, and the smile he gave them, the trusting one that said _I needed you, and here you are_. 

_'Willingly,’_ he'd said. _’Eagerly, even'_, and the way he had responded to Crowley's kiss had certainly seemed to back up the statement.

Crowley let their arm fall away and watched the shadows from passing cars dance across the blank gray ceiling. It wasn't even the first time that Aziraphale had made some sort of bodily gesture like that, some sort of offering of touch, of intimacy that Crowley wasn't sure they could handle. But before he had always done it in such an infuriatingly _Aziraphale_ way that Crowley could never be _sure_, could never know for certain that they weren't overstepping, misreading the signs, going too fast.

This time, it was Aziraphale speeding past them, leaving them gasping in his wake, not sure if their world had changed quite enough for this to be possible, to entertain the thought of putting their hands on Aziraphale without ruining him, despoiling him, making him into something that wasn't _him_ at all.

"Curse you, angel," they muttered to the shadows on the ceiling. "_Bless_ you. May all the worst things on this world fall upon you," but of course they didn't mean it, unless by the worst things on this world, they meant themself. 

"Ugh," they continued, rolling onto their side, finally tossing the glasses away and vanishing their clothes. "What am I going to do about you? What am I going to do _with_ you?" They buried their face in the pillow and tried to shut out the last of the light, curling into themself and hoping for dreams.

Instead, they got memories.

**\------- New York City, 1987 AD -------**

She glittered, sparkled, dazzling all eyes in the room, but she had no interest in any of them. Instead, her gaze was drawn by one of the only people who hadn't seen her yet, standing there soft and pale and golden, lit by the setting sun through the windows. She could feel the moment when he noticed her, but he didn't turn, his lips instead curving into a knowing smile as he heard her bracelets jingling, her heels clicking against the floor. 

"Darling," she drawled, fitting into the space behind him, draping an arm around him, and pressing a kiss to his temple. "I should have known I'd find you here."

"Crowley," he replied faintly, the tips of his ears going pink. He tilted his head to take her in. "You look…"

"Oh, I know," she assured him, and extracted herself, circling him, but not quickly enough to keep him from leaning back against her a little as she went, still seeking her touch. "Bit lanky for this, if I'm honest," she admitted, patting down her skirt.

Aziraphale reached out to catch her hand, stilling it. "You look _perfect_," he said earnestly. "Oh, Crowley, I do wish you hadn't missed the '20s."

"Well," Crowley said, shrugging, "we'll have another set of them in not too terribly long."

He chuckled. "We will, at that." He let her hand go, but almost lingeringly, and when a tray of champagne circulated past them, he reached out for two, handing one over to her. "Shall we?" he asked, offering her an arm, and she took it easily, letting him spin her past their many onlookers and into the galleries.

It was quieter past the crowds, scattered couples or groups making their leisurely way among the artworks, and Crowley let herself do nothing but pass from piece to piece, hearing his insights, or standing side by side and not talking, just tilting their heads in appreciation and occasional confusion, trading empty glass for full glass for full glass again, always with one of her hands tucked into the warm, soft crook of his arm.

They were a few galleries and more than a few glasses in when Crowley stopped in her tracks, her eyes drawn to a piece halfway up the wall, and she could feel Aziraphale go carefully still beside her. She stared, taking it in, and to his credit, he let her, not opening his mouth, standing there poised as if for anything, with his arm trembling slightly, still trapped within hers.

_The Angel Asraphael_, the plaque read, and Crowley felt herself heating up from the inside, hotter than hellfire. She choked on her champagne.

"I'll be damned," she muttered. 

"There, there." Aziraphale finally took his arm back and gave her a gentle pat between the shoulderblades, and she could feel her wings twitching against his touch in another dimension. She choked some more.

"You _sat_ for this?" Crowley all but squeaked out, and Aziraphale's smile was beatific.

"Quite an opportunity, don't you think?" Aziraphale asked. "The artist was quite persuasive, and hadn't a clue about the connection at all. I was just...a muse. I couldn't pass up such a chance to contribute to art, however historically...well…" His eyes traveled over the painting. "Interpretive. We both know it was never a thing like that."

"No," Crowley said, her voice coming out strangled and hoarse. "Never anything like it."

The serpent was coiled about Asraphael's body, tight and sensual, pulling against the soft fleshy bits of him - the curve of his breasts, the swell of his thighs, the patch of hair between his legs - and he was rapturous, head thrown back, eyes to the heavens, an apple spilling from his fingertips. All around him was the garden, lush and thick and green, and Crowley didn't blush in the way that Aziraphale did, but she almost wished she could in this moment. Standing there beside him, seeing the two of them intertwined like that, it stole her equilibrium, her sense of what was _real_ between them, and something in her made her reach for him again, tuck his arm back against hers, solid and grounding.

"He was - " she finally choked out, and she didn't know why she did it, other than to hurt herself, but the words came anyway. "He was a lover of yours, then?"

Aziraphale blinked, turning from the painting to her, looking puzzled. "He…" his face cleared, and he laughed. "Oh! The artist! No, nothing of the sort. She was a neighbor, during some of the time I spent here in the city around the turn of the century. Very pleasant, very distracted, never remembered earthly things like snacks, so I would bring her some from time to time. She took to calling me her angel, and...well." He gestured, looking a little flustered. 

The fist that had been clenching at Crowley's insides had eased a little, and she grinned. "And I suppose you had nothing at all to do with her having the success she did for it to end up here."

"Oh, no, she earned it," Aziraphale said earnestly, but with a slight sly curve to his lips. "Well, perhaps _after_ some of her work was nudged toward the right collectors…"

Crowley laughed, squeezing his arm. "Patron of the arts, you," she said vaguely, unable to tear her eyes from the ecstatic look on the angel's face, the way his body curved against the serpent's, almost seeming to let it take some of his weight, letting it support him as he -

She swallowed. Aziraphale shifted beside her, and when she turned to look at him, he looked almost smug. "She did fine work," he said mildly.

Crowley found herself rewinding their steps in her mind, recalling the pressure of Aziraphale's arm in hers, the way she had followed where he had steered her, and a wicked smile bloomed across her face. "Why, angel," she said, "you _wanted_ me to see this!" She laughed, delighted. 

Aziraphale spluttered, but he was grinning too. "I didn't!" he objected. "It's just...here. Part of the collection. I wasn't going to _hide_ it."

"She did," Crowley agreed, turning to leer performatively at the painting, "do fine work indeed." She turned to appraise Aziraphale, like she was seeing through his clothes, and could see him go pink.

"All right, that's enough of that, now," he said, chuckling self-consciously and steering her away, but she kept turning back to look at the painting over her shoulder until they were out of the room, enjoying the way she could feel him laughing beside her.

He snagged them more champagne at the next opportunity, and drank his too quickly, and the back of his neck flushed red as she curved down to his ear to say quietly, intimately, "Thank you. For sharing."

The pleased little smile he wore for the rest of the night was entirely genuine, and not the slightest bit embarrassed.

**\------- Massachusetts, 1896 AD -------**

"Oh!" Aziraphale's eyes lit up under his hat as he looked Crowley over, his arms busy juggling a blanket, a picnic basket, and a poorly concealed bottle of wine. "You look lovely!"

"I'd better," Crowley said, ”you woke me up for this," but she reached out to take the blanket, strategically earning herself a better view of Aziraphale's half bare legs and entirely bare arms. His shirt was striped, his short pants a dark blue, and his cheeks were already starting to go pink, whether from the sun or from the sight of Crowley in her admittedly stunning bathing costume, she wasn't sure.

"I don't see why we had to picnic _here_, of all places," Crowley grumbled as they made their way through a throng of people moving toward the shore, children darting around their legs, adults calling out rowdily to each other. "Bit crowded, isn't it?"

"It's a momentous day, Crowley," Aziraphale admonished. "Look at all these people, getting to enjoy the first public beach on the continent. It's delightful!"

"It's the ocean, angel. It's pretty big. It's _right there_, in fact. They can just walk up to it, anytime they like."

"It's the principle of the thing," Aziraphale replied. "Look at them all together, enjoying nature!"

"Nature," Crowley sniffed. "If you'd call it that."

"God's nature," Aziraphale elaborated, not looking the slightest bit perturbed by Crowley's cynicism.

Crowley scowled horribly. "Over there, then?" he offered, gesturing toward a less crowded patch of beach.

"Over there," Aziraphale agreed, and looped his arm through hers, swinging the basket cheerfully beside him.

Crowley snapped the blanket out, laying it flat while Aziraphale settled the picnic basket into the sand, and then stood, planting his hands on his hips and beaming out over the glittering water. Crowley stretched out on her back, wiggling slightly against the feeling of the warm sand, and Aziraphale turned to look down at her, a fond smile still curving his lips. He was radiant in the sunlight, all pale legs and soft rounded shoulders, the slightest hint of red starting to light his neck.

"Do you sunburn?" Crowley asked.

"You know," Aziraphale said, and pressed a careful finger into his forearm, testing, "I don't know. I've never tried."

"I don't think it's something they try for," Crowley pointed out. "You do freckle, though."

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose adorably. "Hat," he replied, tilting it jauntily. "Anyway, you don't think my freckles are unbecoming, do you?" He looked faintly worried.

Crowley couldn't blush, but all of a sudden she felt like the sand was baking her through the picnic blanket. "Don't see what my opinion has to do with anything," she mumbled.

"Well, I could get rid of them," he continued, settling down across from her and pouring them some wine into inconspicuous containers, "but I haven't ever thought it worth the trouble."

"It's not," Crowley assured him, taking the wine gratefully, but not sitting up to drink it. "Keep them."

Aziraphale looked pleased. "I will, then," he decided, and set to laying out the picnic for them.

He was the only one who really partook at all, Crowley nibbling at some local berries when he pushed them on her, taking a tiny corner of cheese, but she enjoyed him enjoying himself. She lay there drinking her wine and basking in the warmth of the sun, taking in the sight of more of his skin than she had seen in years.

He laid out, eventually, food tucked away, pleasant and warm and sated beside her, and they sprawled there in the sunshine for what felt like hours, days, years, not quite touching, but near enough that Crowley thought she could feel the heat of his skin radiating toward her.

Eventually, Aziraphale curled onto his side, pillowing his head against his arm and looking at Crowley. "I do hope you're not regretting joining me for this," he said. "I know you've been...well, you've been keeping to yourself a great deal, and I suppose I can respect that, but I don't want you to forget that there's a world here outside…" she knew he wanted to say _your bed_, but he went with "your flat" instead.

"Bloody ridiculous," Crowley muttered, "hopping across the pond for a dip," but she couldn't keep from smiling as she let her head drop to the side, taking in the whole stretch of him beside her. He was brilliant and beautiful in the sunlight, one leg curled up so it was nearly touching Crowley's side, all soft and pink beside the loud red of Crowley's bathing dress. "I suppose it's not the worst plan you've ever had, though," she acknowledged grudgingly, and maybe it was the wine that let her fingers fall against Aziraphale's knee.

He didn't pull away, instead smiling even more indulgently, melting a little further into the blanket.

"Good," he said, pleased with himself, and she felt her whole body jolt at the feeling of his hand landing against hers, their fingers tangling together there against his leg.

It felt bold, exposed, but she didn't pull away, closing her eyes instead because she couldn't take in both the sight and the feeling of him at once. Her awareness narrowed to the heat of him, the pressure of his skin on hers, the soft brush of his thumb over her hand like they were _humans_, on a _date_, just another of the nameless couples around them enjoying this day in the sun.

She was going to sleep forever when she got home. She was going to close her eyes and try to think of anything but this until she thought of nothing at all, but for now, she curled closer to him, and she accepted the warmth he was offering her.

**\------- Paris, 1793 AD -------**

After the crepes, there had been wine. Then there had been dessert and more wine, followed by a delightful little walk from one establishment to another, followed by more wine, and Crowley had lost track of how many bottles there had been, how many hours, how many different conversations.

The only thing he could keep track of was the angel, who was somehow still beside him, his floppy cap long since discarded, his worn coat tossed across the back of Crowley's chair along with his arm, his other hand gesturing illustratively as he tried to explain...well, the topic was something that Crowley definitely was not keeping track of, so he just leaned on a hand and smiled indulgently until Aziraphale trailed off, turning to his empty glass and contemplating it.

"Oh dear," he said. "We appear to have finished this bottle, too."

"I'm…" Crowley said, and let his head sag harder against his hand. "Sleepy."

Aziraphale smiled fondly. "That's something you're still doing, is it?" he asked, sounding curious. 

"What, sleeping? It's not really something you quit, angel."

"_You_ could," Aziraphale pointed out. "You don't need it."

"But I _like_ it," Crowley pointed out. "Why would I stop doing something I like?"

A quiet smile pulled at Aziraphale's lips, and he didn't answer. Instead, he stood, gallantly offering an arm to Crowley, who ignored it and stood on his own, jolting and overconfident with the effects of the wine. He plucked Aziraphale's jacket from the chair and followed him to the front of the inn, pleasantly zoning out while Aziraphale did whatever polite magic he did to return a few moments later brandishing a key triumphantly.

"I," he said, sounding unbearably pleased with himself, "have secured us a room."

"You're an angel, angel," Crowley said. "Although if you're just going to mock me for sleeping, I'd rather you find something else to do with your time."

"Oh, but I picked up these lovely books," Aziraphale said, peeking into the satchel at his side as if checking they hadn't run off on him, "and I would so like to settle in someplace quiet to enjoy them. If I'll bother you, though - "

"No, no," Crowley cut him off, "no bother," and he stumbled ahead of him up the stairs.

The room was small, and quiet, and comfortable, and definitely contained only one bed. "Oh, dear," Aziraphale said, sounding mildly distressed. "I do believe that gentleman may have gotten the wrong idea."

"No matter, really," Crowley said, kicking his shoes off and shucking off a few layers of clothes. "I'll be unconscious in seconds. I promise not to shove you off the bed in my sleep. Just - " he waved magnanimously at the other side of the bed, as if Aziraphale hadn't been the one to purchase the room in the first place. "Make y'self at home."

"If you're sure," Aziraphale said, and when Crowley didn't answer, just flopped down dramatically onto the bed, he smiled and started unbuttoning his shirt.

It was a long process, even in the less complicated clothing he'd miracled himself into, so Crowley let his eyes close, his mind drift, until he finally pried his eyes back open to see Aziraphale there by the window, lit by flickering candlelight, nearly undressed, and he practically swallowed his tongue.

"_Angel_." 

Aziraphale looked up, still balancing on one leg with a stocking in his hand, and he smiled. "Oh good, I thought you might have dropped off. I may need a hand with this."

Crowley choked. "With your…" he stared some more. "Corset."

"I did only think to update the outer layers, and I’d rather not risk doing anything too magical to this right now, since we have had rather a bit of wine. It was quite pricey."

"You were wearing _that_," Crowley said. "Under your suit."

Aziraphale shrugged. "Well, it was appropriate for," and he gestured to his generous bosom. "And no one could tell when I was all covered up."

"Nope," Crowley said, "couldn't tell." But he could certainly tell now, and he couldn't keep his eyes off the swell of Aziraphale's breasts, the curve of his hips. “Why bother, then, if no one would know? Why not just, y’know. Let ‘em free?”

“_I’d_ know,” Aziraphale replied. “Anyhow, they’re much more uncomfortable free than they are contained.” He settled onto the edge of the bed with his back to Crowley, seemingly completely oblivious to his distress. "Would you mind?" 

Crowley's fingers trembled as he worked the laces. His breath went unsteady, and his vision narrowed to the very specific task in front of him, not straying to the constellation of freckles across Aziraphale's shoulders, to the soft pale skin of his throat, to anything but the slow work of his hands until the garment peeled away and Aziraphale let out a great gust of breath.

"Oh," he said, stretching luxuriously, and turning just enough so that Crowley's eyes were drawn to the heavy curve of his breasts. "That's much better. Thank you, darling." He gathered up the corset carefully, packing it away into his seemingly bottomless satchel and exchanging it for a silky nightshirt that he shrugged on as he stood.

It clung to him obscenely. 

Aziraphale turned to find him still looking, and Crowley considered tearing his eyes away, but there had been too much wine and too much time between them that he _couldn't_. He met Aziraphale's eyes instead, and gave a sheepish smile.

"'S'a good look," he said almost apologetically.

Aziraphale beamed. "Thank you. I quite like it myself." He settled down onto the bed, placing a book on the table beside him but not opening it.

"Not one I see on you very often," Crowley continued without meaning to. 

Aziraphale studied him, tilting his head. "Do you prefer it?" he asked carefully.

"On you? I prefer whatever you like, angel," Crowley said, which seemed to be the correct answer, because Aziraphale's smile returned full force. "Not that it should matter," he continued. "You do what you do. Don't let any demon or angel or anything else tell you otherwise." He knew he sounded defensive, but he couldn't stop, the words still coming from him. "You wear what you want to wear, and you look like what you want to look like, and you don't take a bit of shit from anyone about any of it." He paused. "Unless you want to wander about looking for crepes in the middle of a revolution in the most ridiculously bougie look this side of the Channel. Then you get what you're asking for."

Aziraphale laughed. "Point taken, darling."

"Why should it matter, anyway?" Crowley continued, knowing he should stop, but unable to keep the words from coming out now that they'd started. "What I'd prefer. It's _your_ body. Your weird extravagant clothes."

Aziraphale flushed. "It doesn't," he said in a tone that meant exactly the opposite. "It's just that the humans are so concerned with the idea of...gender, and all that, and...usually I understand human perspectives. I enjoy trying things - their food, and their clothing, and their music and stories and art. But I simply cannot relate to them on this, and sometimes it feels like…" he sighed, leaning back against the pillows. "It feels like a failing on my part," he admitted. "I have an idea of who I am in that regard, I think, but it doesn't have a bit to do with my body. I change that on the regular, and yet I feel like I have a very consistent concept of...me. It's all very messy, isn't it?”

"What is it?" Crowley asked.

"What is what?"

"Your - " he waved a hand. "Concept."

Aziraphale chuckled. "I suppose, if I had to pick a word..." he considered for a moment before his face lit up. "I'm a gentleman!" he said definitively.

Crowley beamed. "That, you certainly are," he agreed.

Aziraphale leaned comfortably against the headboard, opening his book on his lap, but then he paused to look at Crowley, who was curled on his side, watching. "I suppose I should ask," he said, "and you needn't answer if you don't like, but do you have...a Concept?"

Crowley grinned. "What do you think?" he asked, like it was a test.

"Well." Aziraphale considered. "I think that when I see you, I think of you in the way that you look, at that moment. You seem to dress to suit the way you're feeling. But if you would prefer that I think of you in some other way - "

"Nope," Crowley said, "you've got it in one. It's whatever you see me as. Whatever _they_ see me as. The perception is the reality."

"That's lovely. _You're_ lovely."

"You're drunk."

"Oh, indubitably." Aziraphale smiled down at him. "Doesn't make it a bit less true." He reached out to settle the blankets more comfortably around Crowley. "Sleep well, Crowley."

"Mmm." Crowley yawned hugely, exhausted, letting his eyes fall closed. "Enjoy your book, angel."

He curled closer to Aziraphale, not quite touching, but close enough that he could feel the heat radiating off of him under the covers, soaking into Crowley's skin, and he let it lull him into a soft, comfortable, and utterly dreamless sleep.

**\------- Rome, 207 AD -------**

"Crawly? _Crowley?_" The stumble was enough for Crowley to know what he'd see before he let his head tip back against the stone edge of the bath, but he did it anyway, tilting back to see Aziraphale standing over him, gilded and bare but for a scrap of cloth wrapped precariously around him. His eyes were wide and almost friendly as they took in the long stretch of Crowley under the water. "I expected you would have left town ages ago," he said. "I haven't seen you."

"Have you seen Rome, angel? This place was made for me." Crowley beamed up at him. "This place, I will not lie, might have been made partially _by_ me."

"Oh, I know exactly the parts you mean," Aziraphale said.

“Back in town on business?” Crowley asked, and Aziraphale’s eyebrows knit together as he looked down at him.

“You know I can’t tell you that.”

Crowley shrugged, utterly unconcerned. “Tempt you to a bit of a dip, then?” he asked, knowing exactly how the angel would turn him down. “A sip? Some nibbles?” A savory looking spread appeared next to him, and he made a show of pouring himself a glass of wine, toasting Aziraphale with it. He waited for the huff, the indignant response, but instead, the corner of Aziraphale’s lips curved up, and the scrap of fabric he was wearing dropped to the floor, folding itself neatly.

Crowley gaped.

It wasn’t the first time he’d seen an angel nude, of course, but it was the first time he’d seen _this_ one, which turned out to be an entirely different prospect altogether. Aziraphale was soft and gentle all over, pleasant curves and plush hair, and Crowley felt the absurd impulse to reach out and touch him, to see if he felt as pliant and cozy as he looked.

“Of course you can’t tempt me to it,” Aziraphale said, “but seeing how I was here to bathe in the first place, I suppose there’s no harm in joining you.”

He perched at the edge of the bath, seeming to take his time with the knowledge that Crowley’s eyes were on him, tasting some of the snacks, savoring some wine, looking utterly decadent. Crowley found himself wondering if this was what it felt like, getting tempted, seeing something there in front of him that he had no reasonable reason to want - and so many reasons not to - and needing it so desperately anyway.

He was quite sure he didn’t like the feeling.

He reached for a grape, not because he wanted one, but because he needed to do _something_, and it gave him a reason to lean in, to get into Aziraphale’s space and feel the warmth soaking into the tub from his skin. Aziraphale didn’t react to his closeness, but he did give a little sigh of pleasure at the bite of cheese he was enjoying.

“You know,” he said, “I do believe I was feeling a bit peckish, so thank you for this.”

Aziraphale slid down into the water as Crowley pulled back, finally obscuring most of his skin, making it a little easier for Crowley to put thoughts together, to find somewhere to put his eyes other than Aziraphale’s thighs, his belly, his chest. Now, though, they were close under the water, close enough that Aziraphale’s warmth was radiating out, wrapping around Crowley, making him want to bask in it.

So he did. Letting his head tip back against the edge of the tub, he let out a sinful sigh, stretching his legs out alongside Aziraphale’s body, luxuriating performatively.

“I should bring you with me every time I come here, angel,” he said. “Like my very own portable hot spring.”

“I’m not yours, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, a little stiffly, but he didn’t make any move to shift out of Crowley’s space. “I do have things to do, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah, your mysterious heavenly business,” Crowley said. “And yet.” He peeked an eye open and was gratified to see how blatantly Aziraphale was staring at him. “Here you are.”

He could have stayed there forever, warm and pleasant and delightfully frustrating, but in order to keep the upper hand, he reluctantly pulled away, standing and stretching and enjoying every second of Aziraphale’s eyes traveling over his body, the way his lips parted and his cheeks went pink.

“Enjoy your soak, angel,” he said, and he strode away without a scrap on him, making sure to let his hips do something utterly obscene as he went.

**\------- Golgotha, 33 AD -------**

The figure on the cross was gone, but they remained, standing there side by side in the gloom, not quite alone, not quite together.

"What…" Aziraphale's voice finally split the silence, sounding lost and broken, and he swiped at his eyes with the back of a hand. "What do we do now?"

Everything about it hurt Crowley. The way that Aziraphale felt free to cry, as if that were a thing that creatures like them did. The fact that he would turn to _her_ of all people for direction at a time like this. The _'we'_...

"Well, I, for one," she said, trying to sound glib and careless, "intend to get deeply, profoundly drunk."

"Oh!" Aziraphale’s posture lost some of its hunched brokenness. "Could I join you?"

Crowley's eyebrows shot up. "Join me. I...suppose, angel. If you'd like. The more, the slightly less depressing, as they say."

"I don't think they say that," Aziraphale said dubiously, but he fell into step beside Crowley as she made her way down the dusty road, resolutely not looking back.

Two rather large jugs of wine appeared in her hands as they walked, and she handed one off to Aziraphale. He set into it immediately, downing a considerable portion of it before she had even selected a nice tree for them to settle under. He practically flopped down onto the soft cool earth, looking up at her as if he was reacquainting himself with her, and she took a moment to scrutinize him pointedly back.

"It suits you, you know," he said finally as she tucked her legs up and settled in beside him.

"The name?" she asked.

"The name. The look." Aziraphale's fingers caught lightly at her sleeve, rubbing the thin fabric. His eyes flickered to her hair, and Crowley suddenly wanted nothing more than for him to touch it, to sink his fingers into it and curl the strands around them, gentle and soothing and all the things she knew she didn’t deserve from anyone, but least of all from him.

His fingers twitched against her wrist and pulled back abruptly.

"It's...soft," he said, and she bristled.

"I'm not _soft_, angel. I don't care what I'm dressing like."

He chuckled, setting into his bottle again. "No," he agreed, "that you are decidedly not. I meant the garment, dear." She froze with her bottle against her lips at the endearment, but he didn't seem to notice he’d said it. “I think,” he continued, musing, “that I may stay here for some time. There will be people here who could use someone caring for them.”

“There’s always people who need someone caring for them,” Crowley said dismissively. “Anywhere you go.”

“Yes, and there are always people ready to be tempted into wickedness anywhere you go,” Aziraphale pointed out. “Sometimes they’re even the same people. That doesn’t mean I should stop being kind to them, does it?”

“Why ask me? You know what I’m going to say.”

Aziraphale looked at her too closely. “I don’t know that I do,” he said. “Do you genuinely believe that if someone yields to sin and temptation, they are automatically unworthy of any kindness? That would be all of them, Crowley. All of humanity.”

Crowley groaned and tilted her head back to drink deeply. “I really wasn’t angling for some philosophical conversation, here. I just wanted to get sauced and forget all that rot for a minute. But yes, that’s kind of the point of my whole deal, isn’t it? Everyone is fallible. Everyone is unworthy. That’s where your whole ‘grace’ bit comes in, isn’t it? Why am I the one sitting here telling _you_ this? We defile, you lot pretend to be above caring, except when you don’t, and then you drown everyone. That’s the game, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale looked troubled. “It’s...it’s not that simple, Crowley,” he said, sounding uncertain.

“Tell that to the dead boy in the cave,” Crowley said sharply.

Aziraphale scrutinized her, too close, too familiar, and Crowley had to look away, to scowl off into the darkness. “He meant something to you.”

“He didn’t,” Crowley snapped, but when she turned to look at Aziraphale, the soft gentleness in his expression made her feel a little less prickly. “No more than any of them do. Look, they all mean something, angel. Not the way they would to you, of course. We don’t - I don’t _love_ them or any nonsense like that.” The word tasted awful in her mouth. “But sure, they’ve got to have some kind of an impact, don’t they? Especially…” she trailed off.

“He was special?” Aziraphale asked.

“I don’t know that he was, no. It’s just...we spent time together. That does something. Makes bonds, and all that, whether you want it to or not.” She grimaced, and drank more. “I’m not talking about this with you.”

“No,” Aziraphale agreed. “Probably for the best.” Crowley expected him to turn back to his wine, or to settle against the tree and look up to say something inane about the stars, but instead his hands landed against Crowley’s arms, unsure and awkward.

“What…?” Crowley began, but before she could finish, Aziraphale was scooting closer to her and fitting his arms around her, stiff and uncomfortable. “I don’t...” she said, but even as the words were coming from her mouth, one of Aziraphale’s hands lifted to the back of her neck, his fingers plunging into her curls and pressing toward himself lightly, until Crowley was tilting sideways into him, his body warm against hers, her head coming to rest against his shoulder, and suddenly, they _fit_. “Oh.” She breathed out, letting some of the tension sink out of her and into the space between them, feeling his fingers brushing through her hair exactly the way she had imagined. She buried her face against his neck and felt more than heard the shuddery breath he let out, his body melting against her.

She wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that, but eventually he shifted, his arm curling a little tighter around her. "Why…?" she mumbled, her words trapped against Aziraphale's shoulder.

"I believe we call it a 'hug,’” he said. “I’ve been meaning to try it.” He pulled back, finally, and she straightened reluctantly, already missing the heat of him, the sensation of his fingers playing through her hair. He was flushed, but looked pleased with himself. “It seemed like it might be...comforting.”

“I don’t need your comfort, angel,” Crowley muttered, putting some distance between them.

“Not everything is about you, Crowley,” Aziraphale replied in a matching tone, and it should have enraged her, the thought of being used to provide _comfort _ to an _angel_, of all things, but her skin was still humming pleasantly with the contact, and her scalp was prickling with the memory of his touch, and she couldn’t manage anything more than a vague simmer of annoyance that they were separated now, and there didn’t seem any good excuse to get him to put his arms around her again.

Instead, she shifted around to lean against the tree beside him, their arms just barely brushing, close enough to feel him beside her, but tilted far enough away that she didn’t have to look at him.

She leaned back, took a sip of her wine, and said something inane about the stars.

**\------- London, 2019 AD -------**

The ceiling, when Crowley dragged her eyes open, was blank and gray and shadowless. 

“Ugh,” she said aloud. “Not yet.”

She considered closing her eyes again, napping until dinnertime, until tomorrow, next year, maybe next century, but the thought of Aziraphale alone in his shop, curled onto the couch and very pointedly doing anything but look at the phone made something in her twist up painfully. She groaned, flinging an arm out and waiting for the dull thump of the receiver against her fingers. Aziraphale answered nearly before the first ring had finished.

“Crowley?”

"_Angel._”

"Oh!" Aziraphale sounded delighted. “I had thought you might...”

“Disappear off the face of the earth for a few decades instead of dealing with...whatever this is?”

"Ah. Well. Rather. That's...not on the agenda, then?"

"No." Crowley's voice felt rough. "The agenda’s just...well, it's just you, really, if you - “

“Yes.” Aziraphale’s reply was instant and breathless. “I do. Crowley, I...I want that very much.”

“Well, then. Be here, angel.”

The knock at her door was instant and insistent. 

"You can just come in, you know," she muttered as she flung her legs and then the rest of her out of bed. "It's not as if I've locked you out." She nearly tripped over herself dragging on the nearest clothes to hand.

The walk to the door felt endless, but she let herself enjoy flinging it open in Aziraphale's face. He refused to look startled by her in any way. Instead, his eyes raked over her, taking her rumpled skirt, the way her hair was loose and flyaway around her face, the wildness of her eyes, unshielded by glasses.

"Oh," he said, "Crowley. Darling," and he gathered her up in his arms. 

It was too much and not enough all at once, and she let herself collapse into it, folding herself against his body and clinging to him. She felt every inch of him against her, from the down of his hair against her neck to the way her bare feet fit into the spaces around his shoes, and when she finally painstakingly extracted herself from him and pulled back to look at him, she realized she could _see_ so much of him, too.

She didn’t let go of him, keeping her hands fisted into his shirt, but she dragged him back into the flat with her, kicking the door shut behind him.

“You wore this for me,” she said, looking down at him, at the simple shirt and trousers, the sleeves shoved up around his elbows. His throat was bare, hair unstyled, and she knew he had left home in a whirlwind at her call, but it was another thing entirely to see it, to see the way his so carefully controlled image could crumble for _her_.

“I did,” he confirmed, so she pulled him in again, not quite kissing him, but pressing her lips messily to his throat above the open collar of his shirt, feeling his whole body tremble at the contact.

"You're not asking anything of me," he said, "that I don't want to give," and she let out a helpless sound against his skin.

"I know," she said, lifting her head, because she did. She might have always known, on some level, but she certainly knew now.

"You only ever needed to ask."

"I didn't know _that_," she replied, and he laughed, pressing his cheek against hers.

"I didn't realize it until last night, that you needed to be told. That you were waiting for permission, of all things. _You_."

"Well, it's hardly my fault, is it?" Crowley demanded, turning to look at him. "When every look I got at you the past few centuries has been like the forbidden glimpse of the ankle of a delicate Victorian lady!"

"There's nothing scandalous about my ankles, Crowley," Aziraphale said, and he held his bare arms up in something like an offering, pulling them from around Crowley, making her feel lost and cold without his touch. "There's nothing scandalous about any of me."

"Tell that to the last few hundred years," Crowley muttered.

"You could have _told_ me. I suppose it has been some time since bathhouses were the fashion, but you do only have to ask, darling. I'm not shy around _you_." As if as proof, Aziraphale stepped fully away from her, and the clothes he was wearing shimmered and vanished, leaving him standing there in Crowley's front hall nude and soft and unashamed, the faintest hint of a smile playing at his lips as Crowley's eyes went wide and dark for him, unguarded by glasses.

"You're not shy around anyone," Crowley pointed out, but her words were vague and unfocused, her eyes and imagination too busy to keep up.

"I am," Aziraphale objected. "A bit of public nudity was a small price to pay for being delightfully clean back when it was necessary, but I will admit that I don't miss the days of needing to bare myself to others regularly."

“And yet. Here you are.”

“You’re not others, Crowley.”

"Anyway,” Crowley continued, deliberately not acknowledging that, “you could have miracled yourself clean anytime you liked. You didn’t even need to go to the baths.”

"Well, yes, but when in Rome, and all that. Also, there really wasn't a better place to hear about what people needed.”

"Mmm," Crowley agreed, “or what they really wanted.” She leered, and Aziraphale laughed.

"Well then." He gestured toward the back of her flat, where a door had appeared that hadn't been there when he'd arrived. "I suppose I should get to know what you want. Or perhaps what you need."

"Angel…" Crowley said, trying to put some warning into her voice, but his fingers curled into hers, and he tugged her toward the door.

"Crowley," he said, flatly, simply. "It's been too long." He dropped her hand as he pushed the door open, and she stood there in the doorway for a moment, watching him disappear through it, trying to come up with the words for any of this, the one thing she might say that wouldn't ruin everything between them, but might save him from this, from _her_.

After a moment, she gave up, and she followed him.

The tiling was straight out of one of her favorite Turkish bathhouses, the plants were obediently lush, and there were no windows, but small lights were tastefully hung across the ceiling and the walls, giving the slight impression of stars. The bath was sunken low into the floor, too big to possibly be in Crowley's flat, but still small enough to be intimate, a bench seat lining the walls under the waterline.

"Oh," she breathed. "Fine work."

Aziraphale smiled broadly at her from the bath before letting himself sink back into the water, letting out a positively sinful sigh. The water was clear and crisp, and she could see every inch of him through it. He met her eyes and then let them travel over him, unabashed.

"I hadn't realized that I was missing this," he said, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. When he opened them at the sound of Crowley stepping closer, he looked faintly intoxicated. "Join me," he said, somewhere between a demand and a plea.

"I intend to, angel."

She settled down onto the edge of the tub, dipping her legs in and feeling the water warm against her skin. She was diagonal to him, not across from him, not touching him, and he didn't slide toward her, just tilted his head to look at her through half lidded eyes, watching to see what she would do.

She stayed there for a long moment, drinking in the sight of him, naked for her, comfortable and welcoming, and when she reached for her shirt, she could feel his eyes following her movement, eager, wanting.

She played with it - played with _him_ \- lifting it to give him a peek of her skin, her hipbones and the curve of her waist above her skirt, before finally pulling the fabric over her head, letting it fall to the tiles beside her, sitting there barechested beside him. She heard his sharp intake of breath, and let out a low laugh, arching to give him a better view.

"You know bras were an invention of my side, don't you?" she asked. "I avoid them whenever possible."

"You don't have a side," he replied vaguely, his eyes on her chest, lips parted, and she wondered if he was waiting for her permission to slide closer, to touch her.

She let him wait.

The skirt came next, and she could have miracled it away, but she kicked it off into the water instead, enjoying the sight of it swirling there until his fingers reached out to pluck it free of her legs and drop it carefully onto the ground. She kept kicking her legs lightly in the water, nearly close enough to touch him, until he reached out for her, catching one of her ankles in his fingers, letting his thumb stroke there slowly, rhythmically, as he looked up at her.

She swallowed and stopped moving entirely, trapped there with his hand against her skin, his fingers gentle but firm, suddenly wanting them anywhere on her but where they were. He held still as well, though, until he seemed to realize she was frozen to her spot, and he shifted slightly, not dropping her ankle, but sliding around the edge of the bath until he was seated right next to her, his shoulder warming her leg as his hand curled more firmly around it.

He tipped his head against her side to look up at her, and the tickle of his hair against her skin sent a shiver down her entire body.

"I think about touching you," he said conversationally.

She made an unintelligible noise.

"You've spent a century hoping to catch sight of me out my clothes? Well, I've spent millennia trying to keep my hands to myself. And probably making a right mess of it, honestly. Do you have any idea what it's like, trying to have restraint when you're faced with nothing but…" he smiled almost fondly "...well, temptation?"

"Yes," she said shortly, and felt his fingers tense against her skin.

"Crowley…"

"I don't know where or how you got it into your head that you're not tempting, angel, but speaking as one with some knowledge of the art, you are a master. You cover yourself up with buttons and laces and ruffles, and you think that somehow that's going to keep me from needing to get my hands on you? That's not how it works. All of these years, and I've, what? Held your hand? Touched your hair, your neck? Do you have _any_ idea how much more than that I've wanted?"

"_Yes_." The word came out breathy and uncontrolled. "You never _stop_ touching me, Crowley. Hugging me from behind. Propping your legs across my lap on the couch. Your arm around me at dinner, your fingers against mine when you take a wine glass. You touch me _constantly_, like humans breathe."

"It's never enough," Crowley admitted.

"No," Aziraphale agreed. "It never is." He looked up at her, his eyes lit by the starlight glow of the lanterns above them. "Fix that. Make it enough. Now."

She let out a low broken noise. "I don't…" she looked down at him, her hands frozen, unable to reach for him, unable to press her fingers to the freckled expanse of his shoulders, the soft fuzz across his chest, even the curve of his cheek under his pleading eyes. "I don't know how to start."

"Then let me." It was a request that should come with movement, with his hands insistent against her skin, but instead he was still looking up at her, eyes wide and beautiful, waiting for her response.

"You…" She tore her eyes from his, throwing her head back and letting out a hopeless noise toward the ceiling. "You can't."

"Do you want me to?"

She shuddered all over, her body still heated from the press of his hand to her leg. "I have never wanted anything more."

"Then - "

"I won't destroy you for this," she said sharply, dropping her head back down to look at him. 

"Crowley." His eyes were soft. "We went to each other's deaths. Did we do that for _nothing_?"

"No, we did it for _them_," Crowley said bitterly, flinging an arm at the door to the world. "To stay with them."

"And," Aziraphale said, "to stay with each other. At least I did. A world without you, Crowley...it doesn't bear thinking of."

"Well. Same to you," Crowley grumbled. "But we don't know that - " 

"I've touched myself to the thought of you."

The words were so unexpected, so incongruous, that Crowley couldn't help but let out a startled laugh. "You...what." But following directly after the shock and amusement was a wave of heat, an unavoidable image of it, of Aziraphale sprawled out on his couch, hand down his trousers, face and neck flushed, head tossed back, gasping out Crowley's name - 

"I lust, Crowley. I have for years, decades, centuries. In fact, run down that list of six other qualities I am decidedly not supposed to have, and I have exhibited all of them. I'm still here, darling. I'm still...for however much the word means anything…_me_." He let his hand slide down Crowley's leg, cupping the back of her ankle again, making her think that he was going to pull away, to break the contact entirely, but when she let out a completely involuntary sound of need, he stayed, his fingers warm and reassuring. "I want to touch you, Crowley. I want - " his cheeks flushed, but he continued, "I want to take you apart, to make you feel everything you have ever wanted. And I want those things because I want you to have all that you desire. Because of the love that I have for you. If that is not holy, then I don't know if that's something I want to be."

"Aziraphale," Crowley breathed out, and finally reached for him, touching her fingers to his jaw, tilting his face up. She wanted to pull him to her, to kiss him breathless, but the angle was all wrong, so she pulled until he shifted, floating his body around her leg and using his grip on her ankle to push her legs apart, settling on his knees between them. It was a scene out of a thousand fantasies, and she was still trying to make sense of it when his hand finally uncurled from her leg and he surged up to capture her mouth with his.

He kissed like the kind of fire hell never saw, cozy and pleasant but with an edge of burning intensity, and Crowley couldn't get enough of it, curling down against him, her fingers cupped against his jaw, dragging him to her and letting out a moan as his fingers sunk into her hair, tilting her head and deepening everything between them. She wrapped her legs around his back and felt him shake against her, pressing closer, the water around them heating up. 

They could have stayed like that for centuries, and she wouldn't have pulled away, his body against hers, his lips and hands more desperate than she had ever imagined them, needing this, needing _her_, but he was the one to pull back, eventually, breaking the kiss and gasping for breath he didn't need.

"Crowley," he sighed out, his breath still warm against her lips, and he let her claim one more kiss before he was leaning back, retrieving his hands from her hair and letting them rest against her thighs, settling back on his knees to gaze up at her.

"Tell me you're not rethinking this." She said it like it was trying to be a joke, but there was still a part of her that thought he might turn away, ripping his eyes from hers, dragging his body out of her grasp.

Instead, he let out a breathless laugh and said, "Goodness, no!" His eyes traveled down her body. "I would just like...if you wouldn't mind…" and suddenly, Crowley wasn't wearing underwear.

"Oh!" She startled, but grinned down at him ferally. "I don't mind in the least," she had almost finished saying before his hands spread out against her thighs and pushed at them, his head ducking downwards. "_Oh_," she repeated, and let them fall apart for him. His eyes met hers once more, hesitating, a question, and she gave him her answer in the form of her fingers curling into his hair and dragging his face to her cunt.

He savored her. If she had allowed herself to think about it, she would have known that he would, but the experience of it was so much more than she would have ever imagined, the initial gentle touch of his tongue licking into her, the feeling of his satisfied moan at finding her soaked for him, then the unexpected messiness as he devoured her, the drag of his tongue through her wetness, the suction of his lips against her clit, his teeth closing against her so gently until she arched up into it, and then it wasn't nearly so gentle anymore, making her cry out, her fingers tightening against the back of his head. His arms went around her, dragging her closer to the edge of the tub, and she let herself fall back on her elbows, her legs splaying out over his shoulders, looking down to see his soft pale head buried there against her. 

The angle was even more intense like that, and she couldn't hold her head up, couldn't do anything but let it fall back and let her vision blur the lights above them into constellations as his mouth broke her down into shuddering nothingness in his arms. Her legs went tight around him when she came with his mouth on her clit, gasping out his name tangled into curses she hadn't uttered in millennia, and he let his tongue brush over her lazily, soothing her through it. She expected him to pull back, maybe to grin up at her smugly, but instead he stayed there between her legs, and she felt his tongue lapping downward, teasing around her opening. 

She whimpered, wanting so desperately to feel him filling her, but also - "I haven't touched you." The words felt slurred, sex drunk, and she could feel the huff of breath as he chuckled against her. 

"We've got time, love," he said.

"I want to," she insisted, "I've seen you, but I want - " the words broke off in a strangled cry as his tongue sunk into her, filling her not nearly enough, a torturous tease. 

"You will," he promised against her, and set to fucking her with his tongue.

She let herself sag entirely back against the tiles, dropping from her elbows and trapping one of his arms beneath her. His other arm pulled away, and she regretted the loss of it for mere moments until she felt his hand replacing his tongue, his mouth moving back up to her clit as his fingers curled inside her. She wanted to stay like that, on the edge with his fingers in her and his mouth working her over, but he brought her off almost effortlessly, her hips jerking helplessly, her breath practically sobbing past her lips.

He looked dazed when he finally lifted his head, and she could barely pick her own up to look at him. There was the smug smile, and deserved or not, she wanted nothing more than to wipe it from his face.

"All right, then," she said, "no need to look so pleased with yourself," but when he pulled back enough for her to slide into the deliciously heated water, she wrapped herself around his neck, dragging him in for a filthy kiss and tasting herself on his lips. She backed him up against the side of the bath, settling him onto the stone seat, and he let her do what she liked with him, pliant and soft in her hands. She skimmed them up over his shoulders, to his throat, his face, and when she reached his eyes, he closed them obligingly at her touch. She leaned in to kiss his neck and enjoyed the sharp breath he drew in. "Stay there, angel," she said. Her hands trailed back to his shoulders, down his arms, closing around his wrists and settling his hands at the edge of the bench. "My turn."

He swallowed tightly, but stayed obediently still as her hands explored him. His arms, deceptively strong, his shoulders, where she finally leaned down to press her mouth to the freckles there, feeling him shake at her touch. She trailed her hands down his chest, his belly, along his sides where the skin jumped and he let out a helpless gasp of laughter, then down to his legs. By the time she had touched every part of him that he'd kept hidden from her for so long, he was practically melted against the side of the tub, his head lolling back, lips parted, and his cock was full and desperate between them. His hands were still obediently curled against the edge of the stone bench, and he blinked fuzzily when she pried them off and settled them against her hips.

He opened his mouth when she settled a knee on the bench beside him, and let out a tiny wordless sound when she slung the other over him, hovering there with his hands against her, just inches from where they both desperately wanted her to be. 

She waited for him, waited for his expression to clear, for the hunger in his eyes to focus on her, the tension to vibrate through his fingers into her body, for "Crowley, _please_," to come from his lips, and even then, she let herself sink down just the tiniest amount, just until he was cradled there against her, hot and desperate and looking up at her as if she was splitting apart his entire universe.

"Choose, angel," she said, and the words were barely formed before his fingers were tightening around her, his hips curving up, his cock filling her, her head dropping back as she arched against him.

"I have chosen," he gasped out. "I have chosen for years, Crowley. It's you. It's always - " he choked on the words, his fingers branding them into her skin instead, as the rest of his thought came out as desperate kisses against whatever parts of her he could reach.

His eyes, when they finally opened, were wild with need, and she managed a wicked grin through her own desperation as she rocked down against him. "Come on, then," she said. "You've done for me, let me - " and she tightened around him, taking in the delicious way his hips stuttered and his fingers clenched and his mouth fell open as he came.

"_Crowley_," he said, but the word was choked off in a gasp as she reached for her clit and came around him, tightening around his oversensitized cock. His head fell back, helpless gasps wrenching from his lips, and when she finally lifted herself off him, he clutched at her, spinning them around with a force she always forgot he was capable of, pushing her back against the edge of the tub and kneeling over her, burying his face in her neck. "Please," he gasped against her skin. "Just...I have to - " and he clung to her, shaking against her until he let out a great shuddering breath and collapsed against her lap, no erection, just soft slickness against her leg.

"Oh," she said. "_Oh!_" and she could feel him laughing until his laugh was cut off by the press of her fingers against him, hot and unbearably slick. 

"I need…" he said, and when he picked up his head from her shoulder, his face was flushed with pleasure and maybe embarrassment. "It wasn't enough, I have to - "

"Again, angel?" Crowley offered, and sunk her fingers into him, curling them until she saw his eyelashes flutter, felt his hips jerk down into her touch. "Again, and then maybe again, and then - "

"Oh!" Aziraphale trembled as he came around her, sudden and hard. "Oh, _Crowley_..."

"You like that idea," she said, grinning wickedly. "You'd like for me to keep you like this," She hadn't removed her fingers, and she could feel Aziraphale tensing around them again. "Take you apart over and over. Maybe make you show me what it was like, rubbing one out over me." Aziraphale flushed impossibly harder, his fingers digging into Crowley's skin, and Crowley turned to catch his lips, drawing out the last of his moans as she fucked him thoroughly, wringing him out until he was a gasping heap of angel on her lap.

He kissed her lazily as he came down, curling against her, and she let her hands trail over his body, feeling every soft warm part of him until his eyes fluttered open.

"Crowley," he said, his voice so unbearably full of love that she had to bury her face in his neck. 

"'zrphl," she mumbled, and he laughed, pulling her close. 

"Come on, then," he said finally, not quite extracting himself from her, but putting the tiniest bit of space between them. "You have a bed here, don't you?"

"'course I do," Crowley replied, and she used what felt like the last of her strength to put them in it instantly, warm and dry, Aziraphale bundled into a soft pair of pajamas, Crowley sprawled out naked on top of the covers.

"Oh." He looked down at himself, smiling gently. "Thank you, dear.” He gestured toward the rest of the flat. "Shall I clear up the bath, or - "

"Nnnnn," Crowley mumbled, burying her face in the pillow. "Leave it. I like it." She curled closer to Aziraphale. "You don't have to sleep," she said, "I know it's not your thing. But - " she peered up at him. "You're not…" she hesitated. Everything in her wanted to fight against the idea of asking him to stay, but he was so warm, and she wasn't sure she could bear the thought of waking up alone after - 

"Don't worry, love," Aziraphale said, reaching to brush some of her hair back. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

Crowley beamed, and when she rolled closer to sleepily toss an arm across his waist, she yelped, her eyes popping open again. "Angel!"

He grinned down at her, then nodded at the neatly folded pile of pajamas on the bedside table that had appeared next to him, piled high with books. "I don't think I need those, do you?"

"Ohhhh," Crowley said, delighted, "I've created a monster."

Aziraphale laughed fondly, shaking his head. "I am no such thing, Crowley. Why, I feel like you have greatly exaggerated my disinterest in nudity, anyhow. It's hardly - "

"A naked monster!" Crowley continued, beaming with pride. 

"Oh, go to sleep," Aziraphale chided, but he was still smiling as Crowley curled herself against him, and he let an arm wrap around her, pulling her close.

She tucked her face against him, letting her fingers splay out over the soft bare skin of his side, and closed her eyes, thinking that maybe again, she would fall into memories.

Instead, she got dreams.  



End file.
